Читать книгу Dreaming Of... France - Кейт Хьюит - Страница 12

NOELLE stayed in her room for two hours before she decided she was being ridiculous. She couldn’t hide up here for ever. Besides, it was boring. And, amazingly, she was getting hungry again. But, more than either of those, she wanted to see Ammar. It was time, she decided, for some answers.

She left the confines of her bedroom and went in search of him. The house was so very quiet and she hadn’t even heard the sound of another voice or step. Did Ammar have any staff, or were they completely alone? She peeked in the kitchen, saw their breakfast dishes had been cleared away, the room tidied. But Ammar—or anyone else—was nowhere in sight.

She tiptoed down the main hallway, looked in a living room, dining room and—surprisingly—a music room with a very good grand piano, but all were empty.

Where was he?

‘Are you looking for me?’

Noelle whirled around and saw Ammar standing in a doorway that had been made to look like part of the wall, so cleverly disguised she hadn’t even seen it. And he’d been so quiet. As quiet as a cat, or a thief.

She swallowed, nodded. ‘Yes. I wanted to talk to you.’

‘That makes for a pleasant change.’ He turned to close the door behind him. With it shut, Noelle couldn’t make it out at all.

‘Why the secret door?’ she asked.

‘I possess a great deal of highly classified information.’ She didn’t ask anything more. ‘Shall we go outside? It’s not too hot in the garden.’

‘There’s a garden? I didn’t see one from my window.’

‘It’s on the other side of the house.’ He led her through the music room, past the piano to a pair of French windows that led out to an enclosed garden with a seating area and an infinity pool shaded by palms. The trees and shrubs—as well as the high walls—provided some shelter from the desert wind and sun.

‘Do you play piano?’ Noelle asked and Ammar nodded. ‘I didn’t know that. Did you … did you play when we were … together?’

Another nod. ‘It’s not something I usually tell people.’

‘Why not?’

He shrugged. ‘A private thing, I suppose, music.’

She stared at him, standing across from her in the little flower-scented enclave, looking calm but also tense, even a little resigned. He dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans and waited, as though for a verdict. ‘I don’t really know you,’ she said quietly, ‘at all.’

‘I know.’

Strange, but she hadn’t expected that admission. It made her sad. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. ‘I want some answers.’ Ammar nodded. Waited. Noelle made herself ask, ‘Why … why did you reject me? In the hotel?’ Now the words were out there, she wished she could unsay them. Did she really want to hear how he’d changed his mind, how he’d no longer been attracted to her, had never been attracted to her? Why else would a husband refuse to have sex with his wife?

‘I suppose,’ Ammar said carefully, ‘it felt like the only choice at the time.’

‘Why?’

He said nothing. Frustration bubbled up inside her; she might as well be staring at a stone wall. ‘Ammar, if you have any hope of a relationship with me, surely you realise I need some real answers? There can be no relationship without honesty.’

‘It’s not that simple.’

‘It is.’

Frustration flared in his eyes, lighting them with its fire. ‘You are viewing the world like a child—’

‘I am not a child!’ That stung, because she knew how naive and innocent she’d once been, believing the best of him, of them, even after all hope was gone. She wasn’t that woman—that silly girl—any more. ‘I think most people would agree that honesty is essential in any relationship.’

‘I am not denying that,’ Ammar said tightly. ‘But I am not sure how much honesty I am willing to give—or you are willing to hear.’

Suddenly she was silenced. He was right. Just how honest did she actually want him to be? And why was she arguing about the necessity of it when she had no intention of having any sort of relationship with him? Still, she needed to know. Something, no matter how small. She let out a shuddering breath.

‘Our wedding night—I was lying in bed waiting for you and the doorknob turned, as if someone was about to come in. Was it you?’

A beat passed, the only sound the whisper of the wind, the gentle lap of the water in the pool. ‘Yes.’

She let out another rush of breath. ‘Were you going to come in, and then you changed your mind?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why?’

‘Because …’ He stopped, lifting a hand as if to rake it through his hair before he remembered he hardly had any any more. He dropped it to his side, turning away from her with an impatient hiss of breath.

‘Ammar—’

‘This is not easy for me, Noelle.’

Again she was silenced. She had assumed, she realised, that it was easy. Or, if not exactly easy, then a matter of little consequence. Long ago, in her own hurt and humiliation, she’d decided he had never actually cared about her one way or the other. She had been, it seemed, a matter of indifference to him. Yet the man standing across from her, radiating an angry tension, his whole body taut and pulsating with it, was not indifferent to her. Not remotely.

‘I don’t understand.’

‘I know.’ He turned back to her, his body now rigid with resolve. ‘I didn’t come to you that night—or any night—because I thought it would be easier for you.’

‘Easier?’

‘Not to be married to me.’

She stared at him, her mind whirling with this revelation. She had imagined many painful reasons why Ammar had rejected her. He was tired of her, he’d changed his mind, he’d never really loved her to begin with. She had never imagined this. ‘Easier,’ she repeated in disbelief, ‘for me.’

‘Yes.’

‘How?’

His mouth tightened and his jaw worked but no words came. Finally, with effort, he said, ‘I realised our marriage wouldn’t work, and so I was offering you a way out.’

She shook her head, refusing to believe so simplistic, so ridiculous an explanation. ‘But you never said anything, Ammar. You … you acted as though you couldn’t bear to be with me for a single second.’ Just the memory made her throat tighten and she blinked hard.

‘That wasn’t the case.’

‘And I’m supposed to believe that?’

‘It’s the truth.’

She shook her head so hard her vision blurred. ‘No. You’re rewriting history, Ammar, or maybe you’re lying—’

‘I am not,’ Ammar said coldly, ‘lying.’

‘How am I supposed to believe any of that?’ Noelle burst out. ‘How am I supposed to believe you were actually doing me a favour when you treated me like you hated me?’

Ammar’s mouth tightened. ‘I’ve had enough of this conversation.’

‘Well, I haven’t—’

‘All you need to know—’ he cut across her ‘—is that I realised it wasn’t going to work, and I meant to let you go.’

‘Let me go? That’s your version of events? Because it sure as hell is different from mine. You weren’t letting me go, Ammar, you were letting me down.’ Her throat ached and her eyes stung even as anger blazed through her. ‘So, just like that, you were willing to give up on our marriage, on me, without even a word of explanation, before we’d even begun?’ It hurt, even now. Especially now, because somehow the truth was worse than anything Noelle could have imagined. It made the loss and grief fresh again, and so very raw.

‘I wasn’t giving up on you,’ Ammar said quietly. ‘I was giving up on me.’

She stared at him, his words seeming to echo through her. She could find no hint in his expressionless face as to what he’d felt then—and what he felt now. ‘What do you mean?’

Another long silence. Ammar’s face looked as if it had been harshly hewn from stone. ‘I knew I couldn’t be the husband you deserved.’

She forced herself to ignore the ache his words—and the quiet, sad tone in which he said them—gave her. ‘Why not?’ Ammar’s expression closed down, if that were even possible. It wasn’t as if he’d been an open book to begin with. It wasn’t, Noelle reflected bitterly, as if he’d been open about anything at all. ‘I still feel like I don’t understand anything,’ she said, her voice caught between exasperation and something darker and far more alarming. It shouldn’t even matter now, the reasons why, and yet Noelle knew from the misery swamping her, the heartache that felt as if it were rending her right in two, that it did. It mattered far too much.

‘I realised I’d been fooling myself,’ Ammar said flatly, ‘all along. It wouldn’t work between us and I didn’t want to drag you down. That’s why I walked away.’

His words fell into the taut stillness. ‘And you just happened to decide that, right after we got married?’ Noelle struggled to hold onto her anger instead of giving into the desolation that threatened to sweep right through her. ‘You couldn’t have figured that out before? You couldn’t have told me, talked to me—’

‘What’s done is done,’ Ammar said flatly, and Noelle let out a choked cry that sounded far too like a sob.

‘But it isn’t done for me, Ammar. It’s never been done. Why else would I be here demanding answers? Why would you even want me to be here? And how has it changed now? How have you changed?’ His jaw tightened. He said nothing. ‘Is it different?’ she demanded. ‘Why do you think a marriage between us could work now, when you didn’t think it could before?’ She took a step towards him, her fists clenched. She felt so angry, ridiculously angry, considering what ancient history this was. Should be. ‘You’re not telling me the truth, are you? Not the whole truth.’

‘I’m telling you enough.’

‘By whose say-so? All I know is that you changed your mind and so you abandoned me. Well, guess what, Ammar. I knew that before.’

‘It wasn’t like that, Noelle.’ For the first time he raised his voice and anger flashed in his eyes like lightning.

‘It felt like that.’ She let out a ragged breath, felt tears sting her eyes. ‘It took me years to get over our marriage, Ammar, to get over you, and all because you couldn’t bother to tell me what was really going on. You still can’t.’

‘I’m sorry.’ He took a breath, let it out slowly. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said again, and even though his voice was flat and hard she knew he meant it.

‘Why?’ she whispered. ‘Why, really?’

‘I was living in a dream world, those days with you,’ Ammar said quietly. ‘And on our wedding night, I woke up.’

‘How?’

He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter.’

It did matter, of course it did, but this time Noelle didn’t press. Her anger had deserted her, leaving her as emotionally exposed as she’d been that horrible night in the hotel, when he’d thrust her away from him.

Ammar still looked completely expressionless, stony and blank, and belatedly she realised she had tears running down her face. Perfect. So much for being strong and independent, needing no one. Twenty-four hours with Ammar and she was a pathetic mess. He still hadn’t spoken, hadn’t even moved, and Noelle had no idea what he was thinking. She felt more confused than ever before. With a revealingly loud sniff, she turned on her heel and walked quickly out of the garden.

Unfortunately there wasn’t anywhere to go except back up to her bedroom. She couldn’t exactly take a stroll through the Sahara. She paced the room, alternating between anger and desolation, until finally, exhausted, she fell onto her bed and cried in earnest, her tears muffled by the pillow. It felt good to cry, a needed release, and yet she still hated that she was crying about Ammar, a decade after their marriage had ended. Did you ever really move on? Time was supposed to heal all wounds, but the ones on her heart felt as red and raw as the scar on Ammar’s face.

Eventually she fell into a restless doze and when she woke the setting sun was casting long shadows on the floor of her room and someone was knocking on her door.

She struggled up, swiping her tangled hair away from her face. ‘Yes?’ she called, her voice sounding croaky.

‘Dinner is served, mademoiselle.’

Noelle didn’t recognise the woman’s voice, but she assumed she was some kind of household staff. So she and Ammar weren’t alone here. ‘Thank you,’ she called, and rose from the bed.

What now? she wondered dully. What would she say to Ammar when she saw him again? How would she even manage to keep herself together? She still had forty-eight hours to endure in this desert prison. Two days left with Ammar.

As she changed into a pale blue linen sheath—again too big, so she cinched it with a wide belt—his words, his tone, even the sombre expression on his face all came back in a heart-rending wave of anguish.

I wasn’t giving up on you. I was giving up on me. I knew I couldn’t be the husband you deserved.

Noelle sank onto a cushioned stool in front of the dressing table and dropped her face into her hands. She wasn’t angry any more, she realised with a pang of regret. Anger was easier, but now she felt only an overwhelming sadness for what had been … and what hadn’t been. What could have been, if only Ammar had been honest with her back when they’d been married.

Are you sure about that? a voice in her head, sly and insidious, mocked. Do you really want to know why he thought he couldn’t be a husband to you, the kind of husband you deserved?

Did it even matter?

She lifted her head from her hands and stared at her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes huge and dark with deep violet shadows underneath them. Did it matter? Was her heart, even now, contemplating some kind of future with Ammar, even as her mind insisted she would be leaving in two days? Her heart was ever deceitful and she knew, with a sudden stark clarity, that this was why she had been so emotionally volatile since she’d first laid eyes on him.

She was afraid she still loved him, or at least could love him, if she let herself.

Yet how could you love someone you’d never really known?

She drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had no answer to that one.

Ammar rose from the table as soon as Noelle entered the room. She looked pale but composed, the blue sheath dress emphasising the slenderness of her body, the sharp angle of her collarbone, and making her seem fragile. He felt a powerful surge of protectiveness, even as he acknowledged how useless it was. Noelle didn’t need his protection now. She didn’t want it.

All afternoon her scathing indictment of his actions had reverberated through him, a remorseless echo he could neither ignore nor deny.

It took me years to get over our marriage, Ammar, to get over you, and all because you couldn’t bother to tell me what was really going on. You still can’t.

No, he couldn’t. He didn’t yet possess the courage or strength to tell her the whole truth. He didn’t know if he ever would, even as he bleakly acknowledged that Noelle would keep demanding answers. Wanting to know all his secrets—secrets that could only hurt them both.

And he’d hurt her too much already. He had never, he realised, considered that he’d acted selfishly by walking away from Noelle. If he were honest with himself, which he had been, painfully, that afternoon, he’d attributed a kind of self-sacrificing nobility to his actions, considered it one of the better things he had done in his sorry life.

What a joke. What a tragedy.

‘Ammar?’

He focused on her now, saw how she placed her hand on her throat, her pulse fluttering underneath her fingertips. She was nervous. Was she afraid? The thought that she might actually be frightened of him was unbearable.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, starting forward. ‘I was lost in thought. Come, sit down.’ He reached for her hand, surprised and gratified when she took it. Just the feel of her slender fingers in his caused a shaft of longing to pierce him with its impossible sweetness. He wanted her so much. He’d always wanted her, longed for her with a desperation that had scared him, and yet he’d let her believe he didn’t desire her at all, never truly considering the pain it would cause her. Never wanting to. That was how he’d survived working for his father for so long. Don’t think about what you’re doing. Don’t think about the pain you cause. Don’t think at all.

She sat down, slipping her hand from his and reaching for her napkin. After a second’s silence she looked up at him, her eyes so wide and dark. ‘I don’t know what to say to you.’

‘That makes two of us.’ He served her some kousksi bil djaj, a Tunisian speciality with chicken and couscous.

While they were eating, he searched for an innocuous topic of conversation. ‘Tell me about Arche.’

‘Arche?’

‘That was the name of the shop you work for? What do you do exactly?’

‘Oh. Yes.’ She looked a little startled that he would remember, that he would ask. ‘I buy accessories and footwear for the women’s department.’

‘And what does that entail?’ He wasn’t all that interested in women’s shoes, but he liked to listen to Noelle. He enjoyed the way her cheeks flushed petal-pink and her eyes lit from within, turning them almost golden. And they both needed a relief from the intensity of their earlier conversation. God knew he did.

‘I go to all the fashion shows, decide what’s going to be popular each season. Keep an eye on what people are wearing. A lot of it is about predicting trends.’

‘That can be a bit of a gamble.’

‘Yes …’ She gave a little laugh. ‘I predicted that fauxfur ankle boots were going to be big one winter and they were a complete flop. To be honest, I didn’t even like them. They made you look like you had hairy feet.’

She made a face and he smiled, felt himself lighten, just a little bit, inside. ‘Not exactly the look one attempts, I imagine.’

‘No, indeed. I bought a pair and wore them for a season, though.’ She lifted her shoulders in a shrug. ‘All part of the job.’

‘I think you could probably pull them off,’ he said, and saw her flush deepen. He felt a fierce dart of possessive satisfaction that she still reacted to him, still maybe, miraculously wanted him. ‘You’d look good in just about anything.’

She froze and something flashed in her eyes. ‘Not, it seems,’ she said, her voice tight, ‘a silk teddy and stilettos.’

Shock iced through him. She was, of course, talking about that night in the hotel. That wretched, wretched night when she’d thrown herself at him and he’d pushed her away, both for her own protection and his. He took a steadying sip of wine. ‘So what was one of your accurate predictions?’

Her mouth tightened and she looked away. ‘Grey being the new black, I suppose,’ she finally said, and he felt a rush of relief. She wasn’t going to press.

‘You seem to favour dark colours now.’ She’d worn black when he’d seen her at the charity ball, and grey the day after.

‘Dark colours are trendy at the moment,’ she said flatly. ‘And I need to stay with the trends.’

‘I liked seeing you in bright colours.’

She gave him a sharp look. ‘I’m different now, Ammar. I know you think we can somehow pick up where we left off—not that I’d even want to, but in any case we can’t. I’m a completely different person.’

And she was intent on reminding him at every opportunity. Funny, how he was the one trying to make small talk now. It had always been Noelle before, drawing him out with her jokes and laughter, her innocent chatter. He’d loved it, even if he hadn’t always known how to respond. ‘How?’ he asked as mildly as he could. Deliberately he arched an eyebrow, managed something he hoped was close to a smile.

She stared at him. ‘How?’

‘Yes, how. How are you so different?’ He genuinely wanted to know. ‘How have you changed?’

She narrowed her gaze. ‘I’m not as naïve as I once was. Or as innocent. And I don’t believe in fairy tale happy endings, either.’ Every statement sounded like an accusation, a judgement. Ammar glanced away.

‘I see,’ he said quietly.

‘And how have you changed?’ she asked, a strident note of challenge in her voice. Ammar felt that familiar flare of anger. She sounded mocking, like she didn’t believe he had changed. That he could.

‘Well, there’s this.’ He gestured to the scar on his face. ‘And I’m thinking about keeping my hair short. They cut it all off when I was feverish—I suppose it was filthy. But I’m finding it very easy to manage.’

She stared at him and he knew she was torn between a sudden, surprised amusement and a deeper frustration. ‘You know that’s not what I mean.’

‘Somehow,’ he said, his voice now carrying an edge even he heard, ‘I don’t feel like baring my soul to you when you look like you want to bite my head off.’

‘You’ve never bared your soul to me. You’ve never shared anything with me.’

He felt his fingers clench into an involuntary fist. ‘It didn’t feel that way this afternoon.’

Noelle gave a snort of disbelief. His fist tightened, his fingers aching. ‘You call that baring your soul? Ammar, you were speaking in riddles, telling me you realised it wouldn’t work and you meant to let me go, blah, blah, blah. Vague nonsense. I still don’t understand anything. Understand you.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, his teeth gritted, ‘I don’t want to be understood.’

‘Then what do you want?’ she demanded, her voice rising in both challenge and frustration. ‘Because you told me you wanted to restore our marriage, to be husband and wife, but I don’t even know what that means. It obviously doesn’t mean honesty, because getting a straight answer from you is like pulling teeth. It doesn’t mean closeness, because you’ve been keeping your distance in just about every way possible. So what? A warm body in your bed?’ She smacked her forehead, rolling her eyes, and a blind rage pulsed through him. ‘Oh, no, never that, because you have never wanted me in your bed.’

‘Don’t,’ he said in a low voice.

‘Don’t what? Don’t speak the truth? Why not? What do I have to lose? You’ve already kidnapped me, refused to let me go—’

‘You’re never going to forget that—’

‘Why should I? Why on earth should I come back to you? I loved you ten years ago, yes, but you were different—’

‘I wasn’t different,’ Ammar cut across her. ‘When I was with you, I was the man I wanted to be.’

She stared at him, clearly stunned into silence by an admission he hadn’t meant to make. The silence stretched on between them, endless and exposing. He felt as if she’d turned a spotlight on his soul. ‘And now?’ she finally whispered.

His throat ached, the words drawn from him so reluctantly, yet he knew he had to say them. She needed to hear them. ‘I want to be that man again.’

She said nothing, but Ammar saw the sorrow in her eyes, turning them dark, and she gave a little shake of her head. He rose from the table. He’d had enough. Enough of this awful intimacy, of feeling so exposed. Enough of her accusations and judgement. ‘Enough,’ he said out loud, his voice hard and flat. ‘We have discussed this enough.’

‘We haven’t even begun—’

‘I am finished.’ He threw his napkin on the table as he turned away from her. ‘I will arrange for my helicopter to transport you to Marrakech. You can leave tonight.’

Noelle watched Ammar walk from the room with long, angry strides with a sense of incredulity. Leave tonight? He was letting her go, then. He’d given up. She was free.

So why, sitting there alone, did she not feel jubilant? Or at least relieved? Amazingly, aggravatingly, she felt worse than ever. Carefully Noelle folded her napkin and laid it on the table. The house was as still and silent as always; did Ammar ever make any noise? Where had he gone?

He’d been furious, she knew that. She’d made him angry, and she saw now she’d done it on purpose because she was afraid. Afraid of giving in and letting herself feel anything for him again. So she’d pushed and pushed, asking for answers but really driving him away. And yet, now that she had, she wished she hadn’t. She wished … what?

She was afraid to acknowledge what she wished for. So afraid. She shouldn’t even be asking herself these kinds of questions. What she should do, Noelle knew, was walk right out of here. She’d get on the helicopter to Marrakech, a plane to Paris. She’d never see Ammar again.

The thought gave her a piercing pain, a direct stab to the heart. She didn’t want that. She closed her eyes, pressed the heels of her hands hard against her sockets. Why couldn’t she want that? Why couldn’t she be strong enough to walk away?

What about being strong enough to stay?

That thought felt like a thunderbolt from the sky, striking her heart, splintering her convictions. What was she thinking? Wanting?

I don’t want to leave yet. I don’t know what that means, what hope there is for us, but I don’t want to leave.

But what would happen if she stayed?

She felt her stomach hollow out and adrenalin course through her veins. Her heart began to thud with both anticipation and fear. Terror, really, because to contemplate such a thing would be to open herself up to the kind of devastating pain and heartache she had felt once before, and had since arranged her whole life to never feel again.

How could she even think of it?

How could she not?

Slowly Noelle rose from the table. Her heart was beating so hard and fast now it felt like a drumming through her body, an ocean roaring in her ears. Her legs were weak and wobbly as she walked from the room. She was going to find Ammar.

And then?

Slowly she walked through each empty room. She even found the disguised door and peeked in the study, surprisingly unlocked, but he was not there. She saw papers scattered on his desk, an open laptop, and turned away. In the music room she saw the French windows were ajar and she knew he must be outside, in the garden. With her fingertips she pushed the door open wider and stepped out into the night.

It was completely dark except for a swathe of light given by a sliver of moon, and it took her several moments to see enough to put one foot in front of the other. The little seating area where they’d spoken earlier was empty, but she saw a narrow stone path winding its way between the flowers and shrubs and she took it. She felt as if her heart, with its relentless pounding, was leading her onwards. Her heart, trembling thing that it was, would guide both her steps and words.

The path led to a private courtyard, with one wrought iron little bench. It was a pretty little space, or Noelle imagined it would be in daylight. Her breath caught in her chest and her heart beat harder as she saw Ammar sitting on the bench, his shoulders bowed, his head in his hands.

In the distance she heard the sound of an engine coughing to life, the whirr of propellers. So he really did expect her to leave. And she should leave, if she wanted to stay safe. Strong. It was so obvious, and yet …

She took a step towards him. He looked up and in the darkness she could not make out his expression at all, yet she felt his desperation and hunger like a palpable thing; it was the same thing she was feeling.

‘I don’t want to go,’ she said, her voice little more than a croak. She cleared her throat, forced herself to sound stronger. To feel it. ‘I want to stay.’